Paint the Night Red
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: Funny, how angry people always seem to be drawn together, as if the universe was setting them up for the clash, angling for violence. (Boyd/Mara, episode tag for 5x05 Shot All to Hell.)


**Paint the Night Red**  
by Sandrine Shaw

Mara writes with lipstick on his skin. Foreign letters in a deep, bloody red that he doesn't understand and doesn't care to ask about, unwilling to reveal his curiosity and too easily distracted by the warm brush of her fingers against his sternum.

He arches into her touch. Her smile is wide and wicked and as red as the words she's left on his torso.

Red is a good color on her. Earlier today, she wore it all over her face, Deputy Mooney's blood splattered across her cheek and her hair. The anger in her eyes told him she was ready to spill some blood herself. His, preferably. Not many people look at him like that. Or rather, not many people look at him like that and live. (Raylan is the exception to the rule, as he's always the exception to every rule. But then, Raylan's anger has never been furious red, like Mara's; it's black - calm and silent and deadly.)

Boyd was drunk when he came to Paxton's house earlier tonight, drunk and angry enough to match Mara's temper. Funny, how angry people always seem to be drawn together, as if the universe was setting them up for the clash, angling for violence.

The first thing Mara did was slap him across the face, hard. Then she kissed him, her mouth on his every bit as vicious as the hand against his cheek. It didn't surprise Boyd as much as it should have. It surprised him more that he kissed her back, that the alcohol and the anger were enough to drown out Ava's voice in the back of his head. He can't blame his intoxication alone; he's not drunk anymore now, the not-quite-pleasant buzz faded the same way all things in his life tend to fade and go. He's not drunk anymore, and he's still naked in Mara Paxton's marital bed. What does that say about him?

Sharp pain on his shoulder cuts the thought short. Mara's nails, long and sharp and painted in shining burgundy, have left four neat red lines from his neck halfway down his arm, right across the dark ink of the swastika.

"Either stay with me or get out," she snaps.

His lips twitch into a smile. He's tempted to remind her that he can't get out as long as she's still on top of him, but that's not the sort of thing to say to a woman you've just fucked and who you intend to fuck again before the night is over.

"Yes, ma'am!"

The sarcastic tint in his tone makes her mouth curl in displeasure. He offers an apology by the way his fingers reach between their bodies, rubbing against her clit and dipping down to the damp warmth of her folds. Her eyes flutter close and she moves against him, pushing down on his fingers with her ass brushing against his cock with every little wiggle she makes.

He's already half hard again, and when she reaches behind her to wrap one of her hands around him, the sound that escapes his throat is so needy and broken that it might embarrass him, if he were a man prone to be embarrassed by his own desires. He's not, though; hasn't been in a long time, accepting that he wants what he wants and there's no point in feeling any shame over it. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, he'll have to take stock of what the fact that one Mara Paxton can make him shake apart as easily as this means for him and Ava. But tomorrow is a long way off yet, and tonight is tonight.

Her strokes are firm and sure, the edge of her nails brushing softly against the sensitive head, adding a delicious hint of pain.

It's all the distraction she needs. Suddenly the warmth of her hand on his cock in gone, and instead there's cool steel against his throat. It could be a game, the sort people like to play in the bedroom, even though Boyd never really saw much use for that kind of thing. But Mara's eyes are hard and cold, her lips unsmiling. Boyd freezes, three of his fingers still one digit deep inside of her.

The sharp blade presses in firmly, forcing him to hold his head rigid. Every time he swallows, he risks having his throat cut.

"I want my money," Mara says, leaning closer.

It would be easy enough to dislodge her, to pull her off him and throw her down. But if her hand slipped even a little, if she pressed down a tiny bit more firmly, his blood would drench the sheets before he had a chance to sit up. No point running that risk. She can't hold the knife to his throat forever. Eventually she'll have to let him up.

He stares at her, hard, and his voice is calm. "You don't want to do this." It's more warning than threat. He would genuinely regret having to kill her, but that doesn't mean he won't.

Perhaps his words come out a little more patronizing than he intended. She doesn't like it, clearly. "Don't tell me what I want. What I don't want is to go back to fucking old men like Paxton, playing house with them and being paraded around like a fancy piece of art they bought."

The hand holding the knife trembles so hard that she cuts his skin on the left side of his Adam's apple. He feels the sharp bite of the blade, the warm trickle of blood down his throat, and the hot, familiar rush of adrenaline through his body that comes with it. Anyone else, he'd think it was fear making them shake, but he just needs to look into her eyes to know that it's anger, helpless frustration she can barely control. "I'm going to get out of this fucking place either dead or with enough money to make a living, I don't care which one."

It might be a lie, or maybe not. She always struck him as a survivor, but there's a point when surviving just for its own sake ain't worth shit. It's a choice he can respect because he's been down that road before and he knows only too well what that's like.

He doesn't have a response for her, steadily holding her gaze until she's the one to blink and look away. She rolls off him, the pressure of the knife lifted.

When he touches his fingers to the spot where she held it, they come away coated in red. There's more blood than he expected. She may not have nicked something vital, but it's clearly more than a paper cut. He rubs his fingers together until the blood covers most of his hand, staring at it in fascination.

Mara hasn't made a move to get away from him.

When he turns his head towards her, she's lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Only the fast rise and fall of her chest betrays her anxiety. She's made her play, but she has no way of knowing how it's going to turn out. Boyd isn't quite sure himself. It's a harder choice than he imagined it to be.

Between them, the knife lies discarded for now, the thin layer of blood on the edge of the blade leaving a crimson imprint on the pristine white of the sheets.

End.


End file.
